Nights Like This
by Kaz1167
Summary: He likes nights like this; he likes easy moments, surrounded by his make-shift family and warm laughs.


He likes nights like this; he likes easy moments, surrounded by his make-shift family and warm laughs. For a long time, he didn't think he would _get_ nights like this—not with what they had lost, not with where they had been—so he soaks in the mellow mood that envelops his dimly lit apartment, filling him with a contented lightness.

As the last strings of light weave into a blanket of black, Bolin's snores come in grumbled, hiccupping-sounds from his sprawled position on the floor; Asami, curled tightly in the over-sized chair, breathes lightly, her delicate fingers hardly grasping the empty, thin-stemmed glass resting against her chest. Even Pabu has drifted to sleep, wedged between the pillows that had been haphazardly dropped upon the floor. He's tired too, but as he watches the bleary-eyed gaze follow the slowly swirling remains of wine glide against the deep sides of her glass, sluggishly spinning its stem between her fingers, he does not want to end the night. Clinging to remnants of consciousness and sobriety, barely keeping sleep at bay, he firmly settles into the cushioned corner of his sofa, stretches his legs to prop them on the coffee table, and loosely runs his hand through his hair. It's down to the two of them and—while he knows it's a silly stubbornness—he will not be the first one to fall asleep.

A sense of normalcy had somehow finally chipped away at the awkwardness between them, allowing for moments like these after almost two years of feigned friendship and stilted conversations. Her head lolls to the side, her legs casually curled under her, and the air of ease surrounding her almost makes him forget the strain of these past years.

"What's your favorite color?" Still swirling the burgundy liquid in her glass, gaze locked on its contents, her question is slow and low-toned, but not slurred, despite the fact that she drank the most wine out of the four of them (steadily pouring herself another glass, she had spouted off some line about water tribe blood and superior tolerance while his brother already giggled like an idiot from the floor). A dull realization settles over him; he doesn't have an answer.

"I never really thought about it."

"Well, then think about it."

_The blurry image of his father's green eyes, like fresh, laughing leaves in the spring air; the green and gold pendant that always graced his mother's neck; his brother's eyes so full of hope and trust despite their often desperate situations…_

"I'll go with green. You?" The movement in her glass stops and she downs the warm remains of her drink.

"Hmm, blue. Next question?" He shrugs in response, and his laughing breath turns into a yawn. She used to play this game with him before they fell asleep, like his answers to silly, little questions asked between thin sheets mattered almost as much as their shared kisses and caresses. Sometimes he misses the strange routine and he finds its modified return almost too comforting.

"Favorite non-bending move?"

"An undercut or kick."

"If you weren't a fire bender, what element would you pick?"

"Water, I guess. Seems the most similar."

"You know they're opposite elements, right?" She turns to face him, pulling her knees out from under her, legs half-bent as she leans against the arm of the sofa.

"That doesn't stop you from using fire almost as much as you use water."

"Yeah, but _I'm_ the Avatar!" Her toes nudge against his leg and his eyes flick to them before he meets her incredulous gaze.

"_I know that_, but they're both… more fluid than earth and more solid that air, I don't know. Water just seems like a better fit than air or earth. I don't know, I'm tired, Korra." His tone comes out shorter than he intends and he wants easy conversation to fill the silence, but nothing comes to mind, a heavy fog slowing his thoughts.

She's quiet for a moment, nods her head in response, before shifting from her seated position and—without hesitation—settling against him, fitting into the nook between his chest and the arm draped over the back of the sofa like this is still something normal for them. He stiffens momentarily, the sudden contact unexpected and foreign after months of distance. Maybe she's more drunk than she's letting on; maybe she just wants the warmth of someone next to her; maybe she misses him—whatever her reason, he's at a loss as she leans her head against his chest and yawns. Sandwiching her arm between them, her hand lies empty beside his leg, the back of her knuckles pressing lightly against the outside of his thigh.

"I'm cold." Her excuse is mumbled and quiet, either from embarrassment or drowsiness, but he can't tell and he doesn't care. He just likes the feeling of her beside him once more.

"Ok." The murmured word is met with a comfortable, yet unsettled silence. Her fingers tap against the side of her leg, bumping against his own whenever she continues the rhythm-absent string of muted beats he feels more than hears.

"Best memory?" The question is buried within a yawn, but he understands it all the same.

_The pride of becoming an Officer with Beifong's elite team; the simultaneous exhaustion and exhilaration that came with winning a probending match. The first night of staying in the bending arena's attic, watching Bolin's sleepy smile and knowing he'd have a little less to worry about the next day. Bits and pieces of lessons from his mother on how to control their shared element, reminders to use it for protection and defense rather than harm (but still showing him how to throw a strong punch). The stolen image of his parents dancing in their small kitchen late at night, his mother humming against his father's chest, as he watched quietly from the door of his bedroom. _

The tapping stops against his thigh, and its absence draws his attention to her open hand…

_The rush he felt the first time she kissed him and the second time, too. Watching her bending return to her, power coursing through her as she hovered in the air, followed by an "I love you" and a kiss. The first night in his apartment, the fumbling, shaking, hands and heated promises between wet mouths and warm bodies. Waking up to her in the morning, knowing he could do _**_this_**_ forever._

His hand itches to take hers in his own, to trace her fingers with his fingertips, to etch meaningless patterns in the palm of her hand. Besides, she's practically snuggling into him like this, it shouldn't be too much of a leap for him to just…

The stream of sweet memories abruptly halts, replaced by hastily spoken words and poorly made decisions eroding what had seemed so indestructible to him. The hand that had drifted closer to her own pulls back quickly, as if shocked by the sudden jolt of unpleasant memories. He swallows the lump in his throat.

"That's…It's kind of hard to pick just one memory." He feels her nod faintly against his chest, a movement that would most likely have gone unnoticed if not for his hyper-sensitivity to her, to this moment. "Next question?"

The sound of her steady breathing meets his ears and he ducks his head down to catch a glimpse of her closed eyes, her mouth just barely hanging open. Her warmth and the subtle scent of the sea and polar bear-dog and something inherently _Korra_ pull him further into memories. He doesn't let himself take her hand as he attempts to untangle the mess of feelings, of regrets, of hopes, as he replays their history in his head. His eyelids feel heavy and he lets his head tip to the side, resting atop her head, piecing together fragments of thoughts—_he won, he fell asleep last; she smells nice, just like she did when they were dating; why didn't they work; she feels so warm. _

He likes nights like this; he likes easy moments, surrounded by his make-shift family and a chorus of mismatched breaths lulling him to sleep.


End file.
